


Petyr Tells Sansa the Story of Sandor's Scars

by Littlefeather



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Game of Thrones, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on HBO's Game of Thrones  Season 1 Episode "Cripples Bastards and Broken Things"<br/>Weekly Drabble Prompt on LJ-The Story of the Mountain and the Hound, told from the persepectives of Petyr, Sandor, and Sansa at the Hand's Tourney.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just an FYI to Petyr/Sansa shippers-sorry, this fic is a Sandor/Sansa story.

"This tourney for Ned Stark is the grandest Kings Landing has ever seen," Petyr Baelish remarked to King Robert. The man made sure his face reflected the barest passive interest as he gazed over the pavilion.

"It's no more than Ned deserves and no more than the new _Hand of the King_ deserves," replied Robert, patting the serving the serving wench on the bottom as she refilled his goblet. The king never turned down an opportunity to needle Littlefinger.

Robert's words seared into his mind. _"What does Ned Stark deserve, exactly? Why has been given so much that belongs to me! Isn't enough he has my beloved Cat, and now he is named Hand of the King!"_   The words shouted in Petyr's mind but never left his lips.

Poisoning Jon Arryn was supposed to ensure his place as the Hand of the King. There were plenty of others wanted the position, he was certain. Inexplicibly Robert had named Ned Stark, a man who had never even served in King Robert's court.

Outwardly Petyr maintained his usual lordly demeanor; however, inside he choked down the seething envy welling in his heart.

Petyr responded to Robert's jape by draining his goblet in one swig before shouting, "Indeed! Here, Here! To Ned Stark!"

Suddenly he spied a red-haired maiden entering the pavillion. _Could it be that Cat decided to come to the tourney after all?_   Petyr's heart lept at the sight of her before he quickly realized his mistake. The young woman was her oldest daughter, Sansa, on the arm of Ned. She was so beautiful, the very image of her mother holding on to her father's arm as he guided her to their seats. She moved with the same grace as her mother as she settled herself next to Arya and Septa Mordane.

The very sight of her smiling up so sweetly at Ned while squeezing his arm in excitement made Petyr physically ill with rage. _She should have been our daughter, Cat,_ Petyr thought. The only benefit to Ned's appointment as Hand of the King wasit meant he would see Catelyn every day. The idea filled his heart with love; hers was the first and only love he had ever known. _She would have given her maidenhead to me._ Had he been able to convince her, he was positive she would marry him after that.

One day Ned Stark had rode up offering her a ladyship, Winterfell and all that it entailed; and in no time Petyr found himself tossed aside as collateral damage in the game of thrones, left to console himself with Cat'shomely but willing sister Lysa. Over the years, Petyr had tried to in vain whore the memory of her out of his mind, but it was never the same as with Cat. The man whiled away many an hour wishing Ned Stark dead, though he knew that even in such a thing happened he still would never be able to marry his beloved. All  his time spent in brothels garnered him a singularly lewd reputation, effectively ending his hopes of ever having Catelyn Stark to himself.

* * *

Sansa thrilled as she took in the scene surrounding them: ladies dressed in their finest gowns and jewels, knights in gleaming armor, huge war horses being prepared for the joust-it was the most exciting thing she had ever experienced. It looked like a scene out of the stories she loved to read as a child brought to life. 

Joffrey was sitting with his father and flanked by the Hound, and he smiled when he saw her. People turned to see which lucky maiden had the Crown Prince's attention. Sansa felt a deep blush rise to her cheeks as all eyes fell on her, and soon all of her sadness over her mother's departure from King's Landing evaporated.

Ser Loras Tyrell rode up on a beautiful white mare, bowed and handed her a red rose with flourish. Sansa beamed at him and turned to her father, squeezing his arm and laughing merrily. Ned couldn't help but smile at her girlish enthusiasm, but inwardly he worried over how the tourney would progress. He knew many of the participants: Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides and his brother Sandor, the Hound a brutal man known as the fiercest fighter in Westeros. Next he saw Jaimie Lannister in the paddock, the so-called Kingslayer and Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers-so far none of the men participtaing where the sort he wanted Sansa and Arya to cheer on at their first tourney. Ned frowned as the men took their positions: as far as he was concerned he hoped they all lost.

Gregor and Loras assumed their places for the joust, signaling the tourney was about to begin. Ned heard King Robert bellow his name from high up in the stands, causing everyone to look his direction.

 _Sounds like Robert's already had a bit too much wine,_ thought Ned. _I'd better go up to him before he makes a scene._ As Ned rose from his seat, the joust began.

* * *

Petyr could barely tear his eyes away from Sansa's creamy skin, flushed prettily with excitement. Cat's skin had been so similar to Sansa's and felt like velvet under his touch. He licked his lips subconsciously at the memory of her taste, like honeyed ale from the Summer Isles. The sight of Ned caused him to grit his teeth, knowing he would be expected to greet the Hand of the King as he approached the royal box.

He took a deep breath to calm himself and noticed Sansa moving in her seat. As she turned to look their way, his breath caught at the sight of her Tully blue eyes, her perfect pink lips forming a demure smile. _Is she smiling at me?_ Petyr's heart raced like a teenage boy at the thought before he noticed the direction of her gaze: Sansa looked right past him and was smiling at Sandor Clegane, the Hound.


	2. Chapter 2

_How could she look at that monster and smile?_ His mind could barely comprehend what was happening. F _irst she smiles at Ned, then at the Hound?_

Bile rose in Petyr's throat in indignation. "She was supposed to be mine, my daughter, smiling at me! Doesn't she realize who I am? She acts like I am a nobody here-ungrateful little wolf-bitch!" He hissed though no one around him heard him, or even seemed to care he was even there.  _Just wait; I'll wipe that pretty little smile off of her face;- know just the story that should do the job nicely._  

Petyr grinned wickedly as he moved from Robert's side and making his way to Sansa. He exchanged a look with the Hound which temporarily distracted him, but he moved on. He sidled up close to Sansa and took her father's empty seat next to her.

* * *

Petyr was not the only watching Sansa. Sandor had noticed him leering the moment Ned and Sansa arrived. _Stupid buggering bastard, he out to know better than to get up and leaving his daughters with the likes of these men around,_ the Hound simmered as he watched Littlefinger gape at Sansa. The unmistakable lust in Lord Baelish's eyes did not escape his notice, nor did the bulge in his pants as he rushed past. "Sick Littlefucker!" Sandor growled loudly. Petyr glanced back at him briefly before continuing toward Sansa.

Sandor had many times heard Robert and Joffrey speak of Lord Eddard's oldest daughter's great beauty on the Kingsroad. He immediately took notice of her when they arrived at Winterfell, and had admired her mother's beauty as well, as Sandor was always partial to red hair. He made sure he took his opportunity to speak to her when he stopped Ser Illyn Payne from intimidating her. She was even more beautiful than the men said: young and graceful with striking blue eyes and creamy skin.

When he touched her shoulder to keep her from backing into him, he felt her trembling like a pretty little songbird from the Summer Isles. As she turned to him, she looked directly in his face-something few ladies or whores alike would do, let alone a highborn maiden. Sandor was used to seeing people look in fear at him and was shocked by her openly gazing into his eyes. Sandor saw the girl was frightened of Ser Illyn but before he could say anything more, Joffrey sent him off on his way.

He secretly thrilled at having her attention, and had replayed that moment many times since. _Joff thought I scared her, the inbred idiot. She is such a delicate thing. How could he not know it was his own stupid bragging about Ser Illyn being the royal executioner that frightened her?_   Sandor was no ladies' man like King Robert or Tyrion and his experience being limited to the occassional whores, but even he knew Joff's remarks were not a decent topic of conversation with a highborn lady. Remembering that day caused his aner to flare once more as he glared at Lord Baelish, who was now settling himself beside Sansa.

The sight of Sansa looking up at him immediately jolted him out of his thoughts. Her eyes lit up when they met his and a shy smile spread across her face, without a trace of fear to be seen in her. Sandor could feel his lips threatening to smile back, but he quickly averted his eyes from her. _Better if she doesn't learn to get friendly with the likes of me, she's safer that way_. He hated himself as he looked up again and glared at her, watching her pretty smile turn to a frown as she looked away.

Sansa's behavior puzzled him, and the feeling of having a pretty girl look at him and smile without fear was new and exciting to Sandor. Having her look at him in the face was more good than he expected to ever know in life, and a part of him hated to put an end to it. But it was best for Sansa he knew, and he couldn't bear it if anything happened to her.

* * *

Sansa was surprised and confused when the Hound did not return her smile; in fact, she was deeply disappointed, although she could not say why. Since he was Joffrey's sworn shield, she wanted to make his acquaintance in hopes that maybe they could eventually become friends of sorts. She would be his queen one day, after all, but he sneered at her and turned away with an annoyed look on his face. Had she somehow offended him? Her mind quickly replayed their first meeting but her thoughts were soon interrupted by Littlefinger sitting down in her father's seat.

"Has anyone ever told you the story of the Mountain and the Hound?" Petyr began, much to Sansa's confusion.

 _What is he saying to me?_ Sansa wondered; she wished her Father would return.

Arya didn't like the way he eyed her sister. "Why do they call you Littlefinger?" She scowled and leaned forward, earning her an elbow in the ribs from her septa.

“Lovely little tale of brotherly love," Petyr continued, ignoring her. "The Hound was just a pup, six years old maybe, Gregor few years older, already a big lad, already getting a bit of a reputation. Some lucky boys just born with the talent of violence."

Sansa's eyes widened; she was raised in a house full of boys and had no idea what he was talking about. _What does he want?_  

Undeterred, Petyr went on, leaning in close. "One evening, Gregor found his little brother playing with a toy by the fire, Gregor's toy." He paused, noticing the color drain from Sansa's face. She pursed her lips and he saw her brows knit together worriedly.

He leaned in closer still, taking in the lavender scent of her hair. "A wooden knight. Gregor never said a word, he just grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the burning coals."

Sansa slowly turned and briefly glanced at the Hound. _Could he hear what Lord Baelish was telling her?_ The Hound was looking straight ahead, his face unreadable. His scars were mostly covered by his hair from where she sat. Sansa noticed for the first time that without them he may have been rather good-looking, and that he had the look of Northern men like her own father, which Sansa liked. Flustered, she quickly turned her head back to Littlefinger as he continued.

"Held him there while the boy screamed. While his face melted..." He hissed his finish, then paused for the full effect of his words to sink in. "There aren't many people who know that story."

"I won't tell anyone, I promise." Sansa whispered, relieved he was finished.

"No please don't," Petyr looked straight into Sansa's eyes, trying not to laugh in her face at his success in scaring her. "If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I'm afraid all of the knights in King's Landing would be not be able to save you." Smirking to himself, Petyr was satisfied to see Sansa's fearful expression had replaced her earlier happiness.

She took a deep breath and wondered at Lord Baelish's words. What was his point in telling her of all people this story? Why did he not fear telling her the Hound's story? For all Sansa knew, the Hound may have heard every word out of his mouth. Her heart went out to him. _The Hound must have had a fearsome past and seen terrible things, and must_ _be very brave indeed,_  she decided. Unable to resist the urge, Sansa peeked up at him once more.

* * *

Gregor bared his teeth in rage as he and Ser Loras jousted. Sandor couldn't help but feel sorry for the Flower's knight. _Too much of a highborn to match Gregor, that one._ There was gossip around King's Landing that he was Renly Baratheon's lover, which clearly was confirmed by the look of fear on Renly's face. _Poor bastard doesn't know what he's in for._ Sandor could not care less who the young man buggered in his off hours. _No man here deserves my brother._

His thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sound of Littlefinger's voice, the sound of him mockingly speaking to Sansa carried up to his station beside Joffrey. _You bothered to_ _speak low, but not low enough,_ _Littlefucker,_ Sandor thought. _He must have forgotten what good hearing dogs have._ Sandor picked up every word out of his mouth and furiously realized the Mockingbird was telling the poor child the whole story about his burns. Littlefinger embellished it and dramatized his account in such a way to scare poor Sansa even further.

 _Robert must've told him when he was drunk, damn me,_ Sandor silently cursed. _No, Robert can hold his liquor with the best of them_ , _it  couldn't have been him._   Maybe it was Varys who told him; he and Robert were the only two men who knew how he got his scars. The rest of the people never asked him, assuming it was in a fierce battle. "If Varys wasn't already a eunuch I'd geld him for this," Sandor growled under his breath.

 _Littlefucker can't stand it that the pretty Little Bird would rather smile at me than look his direction._ Sandor grunted at his conclusion, never dreaming a soft handed pretty little lord like Baelish would ever be jealous of the attentions a lovely highborn maiden paid to the Hound, Joffrey's dog. He felt a chuckle coming out but wanted to hear the rest of it, so he maintained his usual disinterested expression and keened his ears closely to Littlefinger's words.

After a while, he decided Littlefinger's story didn't seem to have the desired effect, because when the man finished, he saw Sansa once again turned to look at him. Sandor was astonished as he returned Sansa's gaze, allowing his gray eyes to soften as he looked at her. Her expression was not in fear of him, but rather in fear for him and she regretted the terrible thing that had happened to him deeply, he could see it in her gaze.

Her eyes were filled with sorrow at the story she heard and she looked at him with new found admiration and respect on her face. He knew she wanted to say something, maybe offer him comfort of some sort. She didn't fear he would kill her, as that idiot Littlefucker all but threatened her he would. Sandor would have never hurt the girl, even if she did tell someone, just barked at her some to keep her on her toes.

Sandor almost laughed out loud at the shocked look on Baelish's face. The man did not having time to say more as Ned returned to his seat and Littlefinger was forced to sit in an empty spot behind them. Sandor watched as Sansa smiled up at her father, returning to her former happy self as she watched the joust in excitement.

 _Damn him to the Seven Hells he has bad luck,_ thought the Hound. Instead of Littlefinger scaring her from him, it seemed to draw her to him even more. He would love nothing more to cut that runt Littlefucker in half not just for telling that story for scaring his pretty Little Bird. Sandor would bide his time; he'd get his chance sooner rather than later.

Later, Petyr would witness the utter failure of his attempts. Sandor raced to face off with Gregor with Loras scrambling to escape the ensuing battle.

Sansa clutched Ned's arm in fear and gasped as the loud clash of their swords rang out. She could not bear to see the Hound hurt and was most relieved when she heard King Robert shout, "Stop this madness in the name of your King!"

Sandor fell to one knee at once, holding his sword in front of his body and bowing his head. When he raised his eyes and looked at Robert, the next person that caught his eye was Sansa.

She jumping up from her seat and clapping her hands and tossed Loras' red rose at his feet, her face beaming and eyes shining as though he was a knight from a fairy tale. Littlefinger and her father both looked appalled, gaping at her reaction.

Sandor could not help marveling at the knowledge a beautiful highborn maiden would listen to his story and be able to see beyond his scars, both visible and invisible. Even more startling was watching her smile and cheer for him with a smile. Sansa had looked at him as more than the Hound; she saw him as a man, as Sandor Clegane.  He felt wonderful, better than he realized he could feel, and long after that day Sandor Clegane saw the young beautiful maiden in a whole new light.


End file.
